


Falls The Shadow

by hulklinging



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grim Reapers, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-11 16:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulklinging/pseuds/hulklinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Monroe was born old, and almost three hundred years later, he feels it. And then there are some, like Amy, like the boy he has been sent to collect, who will be young forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men.'

Simon believes in God.

 

He believes, not because it gives him comfort, really, but because it’s the only option that makes sense.

 

“You worry too much, dumb dumb,” Amy says, as she drags him down the road that will eventually lead them to their next life (“we don’t have to eat, or sleep, we might as well take the scenic route!”). “Does it really matter?”

 

It does, he thinks, but does not say out loud. Him and Amy have had this conversation before. Even with twenty years behind her, she is new to this life. Simon has been walking this world for almost three centuries, now, still not sure who he’s working for.

 

Amy calls them angels, for lack of a better word. Reaper is another common name, but too bleak, in her opinion. Simon still uses the name they had when he began, although it is considered dated now.

 

Walker. It’s what they are. In their own slow ways they wander, drawn by the pull of the person who will next need them.

 

“Have you ever been this far out, Simon?” She doesn’t look back at him, but still chides him for his expression. “Don’t give me that look. I once met a man who was born before London was. He’s never left the city.”

 

“It’s been a long time,” he admits. He had been young, or whatever counts as young, for them. It had not gone well. But that was long enough ago that the memory had all but faded. Not important now.

 

“I think it’s someone young, this time.” Amy chats, which is usually a trait that annoys Simon. But it is hard to be annoyed with Amy. And after almost a decade of working with each other, she respects that he doesn’t always pay attention, and appreciates it when he does. Theirs is an easy partnership, almost effortless in how comfortable it is. And they balance each other out, Amy being as bright and calm as she is, with Simon there to add ballast, to add that deeper meaning for those with belief.

 

“It feels like someone young.”

 

Simon shrugs. Amy gets feelings, and they’re often correct. Simon doesn’t understand them, but neither does he disregard them. He’s never encountered one of them quite like Amy, before. Maybe she’s the first of a new breed. Maybe this will be the generation who grows wings.

 

In time, they approach their destination. The pull leads them to a town called Roarton, tucked into a valley, and even though Simon knows the city isn’t that far away, something about this town feels so remote. Like they are alone at the end of the world.

 

“This is the dead land… This is cactus land. Here the stone images are raised…”   _Here they receive the supplication of a dead man's hand, under the twinkle of a fading star._ The words resonate inside him with a strange kind of power, and he takes a breath he doesn’t need.

 

“Couldn’t have said it better, partner,” Amy says with a grin. “Let’s go find our boy, shall we?”

 

A young boy. Something stirs, deep in his memories. Another boy, hardly a man, with wide eyes full of fear. As quick as it came, the image deteriorates, leaving Simon with little more than slight unease as he follows Amy down into the village.

 

Before Amy, Simon would wander until he stumbled upon his mission. Not the most efficient, but time was of such little concern to him that he hardly minded. But Amy is something else. It is a wonder to watch, her skipping down a busy street or deserted road, pulled right to their charge with no hesitation at all. Simon used to consider telling the others about her skill, but Julian has been so distant of late. And Amy would doubtless be moved to a different partner, someone more important. And Simon would miss her. So he keeps her secrets, another sin, surely, but in his book of transgressions it is hardly the worst. Does sin even apply to them, anymore? Or are they merely the consequences of it?

 

More questions with no one to answer them.

 

Amy leads them to the door of a pub, goes in without hesitation, and Simon follows.

 

Ah, and there is the boy, at the bar. Simon knows as soon as he sees him that he is who they are here for. Young, maybe even too young to really be working here. He doesn’t look ill, though. Perhaps it is an addiction, given the setting. Something sudden. An accident, a fight. Whatever it is, it will be soon. It always is, once they arrive.

 

Amy picks out a table by the back. They look out of place here, Amy in her flowers and Simon in his rundown Sunday best. They get a few odd glances, and Simon is sure some of the tables will turn around and begin to gossip about them, but he doesn’t concern himself with it. Gone are the days where they might be mistaken for witches, and there is precious little a town can do to rid themselves of him.

 

They are, after all, the inevitable.

 

Amy loses her chatter once they take their seats. She is taking in the boy, looking through him and seeing what only she can see. Simon leaves her to it. He tries not to concern himself with the ‘who’, not anymore. It doesn’t make his job easier, not often enough to warrant the effort. And of course Amy loves it. Says it’s important. Another argument Simon doesn’t care to win.

 

Was he always this distant? He’s not sure. It’s not the deaths. They are chosen because the deaths will not affect them, if the folklore is to be believed. Even Amy, who is the kindest person he has ever met, in all of his wanderings. Even she does not feel guilt for what they do.

 

He remembers that conversation well, a clear snapshot against the repetition of their days. “We don’t create death,” she said, late enough that all they can see are the stars. She’s young, she died young and it’s something she brought with her, in the way they are prone to do. Simon, who was probably born an old, hollow man, is still unsure at this point whether they will work at all as a pair. They are still in their first year of knowing each other, here. They are a long way from home. “We’re… shepherds. We’re making sure all the kids get home safe from their day trips. Does that fit into your verses, altar boy?”

 

And it does. She fits less well, but with this conversation he knows that she is where she should be.

 

And now they are there again, where they are supposed to be. The darkness of the bar does not quite mirror the stars that day, but he sank into the memory all the same. He comes back with a slow blink, just as Amy stands up.

 

“I want to say hello.”

 

Simon nods his okay. He knows she doesn’t need it, but she likes it all the same. And he listens, as she says hello, as the boy responds in a soft voice that Simon can’t quite make out. And Amy laughs, louder than usual. Loud enough that Simon knows he’s supposed to listen.

 

“Kieren Walker? That’s interesting. Kieren Walker, I’m Amy Dyer.”

 

Kieren Walker. A small strange voice in the back of Simon’s mind whispers, all but drowned out by another one of Amy’s laughs.

  
_Kieren Walker, I know you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit suicidal thoughts, in this chapter.

Kieren Walker is not a superstitious boy.

Maybe he should be, with his track record. But he can't buy into treading carefully on certain Fridays. There are way too many cracks to not step on any.

But Kieren Walker is also an artist. And there is a difference between superstition and intuition.   It isn't superstition that makes his breath catch, when two strangers walk into the pub on a slow Tuesday night. When Kieren looks at them, dully interested in these newcomers, the girl looks right back, and when their eyes meet, a cold shiver runs down his spine.

_"Means someone just walked over your grave, Ren."_

Rick's voice echoing in his head makes that icy feeling disappear real quick. Still, it's the most alive he's felt in months.

There's a man with the girl, he notices, in a suit that's as worn as the man himself. In the dull lights of the pub, he almost disappears. Kieren, who has always been bad at blending in, can't help but envy him. And then he has to look away, because the girl is approaching. She is the opposite of her companion, bright and alive. Impossible to miss. She smiles, and Kieren smiles back out of some old reflex. He thought he had lost all those habits, when he decided to stop living. Guess this one, like breathing, is one he hasn't quite managed to kick, yet.

"Hey stranger!"

She sits on a bar stool right in front of him in a production of flowers and petticoats. "I'm Amy. Amy Dyer."

"Kieren Walker." His voice is a stranger's, only a touch robotic but still very far away. "Did you just move here?"

He doesn't care, not really, but polite conversation is a part of the job, or so Pearl keeps saying.

"No, just passing through." And there's a joke here, one he doesn't care enough to grasp. She chuckles anyway, letting him in on the laugh, but when he doesn't engage, her lips twist into a frown. Not a disappointed expression, really. Just a confused one.

"What about you, Kieren? Planning on doing any travelling soon?"

He shakes his head, maybe a little too quickly. He doesn't like how she watches him, like she can see his lie. Like she knows.

No. There's nothing for her to know. He's being paranoid, again. She's just a customer, just a backpacker passing through.

"Pity," she says. "There's a lot of interesting stuff, outside this town."

And now that feeling is back, the freezing one. He stares at her for a beat too long. Because this is too strange, and there's no way she could know, but he gets this feeling that maybe this girl knows things she shouldn't all the time.

"Are you getting anything, then?" He's blunt, almost curt, but it doesn't seem to damper her attitude. She orders, and he imagines she can feel her eyes on the small of his back the entire time he's making her drinks. She tips well, though, and doesn't bother him for the rest of the night. In fact, whenever he glances over at her table, she's talking to her companion, not even sparing a glance his way. He's so stupidly relieved at this fact that he doesn't notice it now seems to be her companion's turn to not look away. They leave before last call, and Kieren heads home.

Paranoia is a symptom, he reminds himself, as he trudges home. He's just being paranoid, that's all. They're just two strangers 'passing through', as she said. He'll probably never see them again.

His mom is still up, when he gets home. Dad's watching a film in the den, but his mom is at the kitchen table. She looks up when he walks in, and shoots him a tired smile. She always looks tired, lately. Having a kid like him does that, he supposes. "How was work?"

He surprises himself by answering. "S'fine. Some backpackers came in. Looked pretty lost."

And maybe it's just in his head, but his mother's smile gets a little bit bigger. "Yeah? Hope you helped them out, then."

He nods, as his dad shouts from the living room. "City folk, then? From Manchester?"

"Didn't say," Kieren answers, although he's not sure he's loud enough to be heard over the show. He suddenly feels exhausted, weary to his bones. That raw feeling he gets when he's been around people too much is creeping up on him, like someone has scrubbed him down with sandpaper. "M'gonna go to bed."

"Do you work tomorrow?" his mom asks, even though his schedule is in the calendar behind her. Still, he shakes his head. It gets one last smile out of his mom, who shoves a plate of food at him.

"I don't mind if you eat dinner in your room. You missed the sit down dinner anyway."

He takes it, more to make her smile stick around a little longer than any particular hunger on his part. Still, he manages to get some of the potatoes down before they start to taste like ash, and then that means it's time to get into bed. Resist the urge to reach for the knife (bedside drawer, under the empty sketchbook, messy and traumatizing) or the pills (bathroom cupboard, whole bottle should do it, but everyone's still awake and it would take too long) or the unassuming box under his bed, because that's dangerous in another way, in a way that tastes like secrets and White Lightning. He tucks his blankets in around him, as tight as he can manage, tight like a straitjacket, he imagines, and when he closes his eyes he sees white walls. It's almost comforting, because when you're locked away no one expects anything of you. No one misses you, either.

Right before he dozes off, he sees movement in the corner of his little fantasy of a room. He's never not been alone, here. The figure is tall and dark and before he wonders at why there's a stranger in his safe place he's dreaming.

He wakes up and actually feels rested. It isn't until he's already wasted half his day off staring at old, unfinished pencils that he realizes Rick didn't visit him in his dreams last night.

In the six months since Rick's death, Kieren can't bring to mind one night he spent alone. Rick has always been there, sometimes cruel and sometimes kind but always a constant. He stares out the window, not seeing, not really. Is this what it's going to be like? Slowly forgetting, until he can't remember the exact pitch of Rick's voice, or how his laugh sounded when he was with just Kieren, just a laugh for the two of them.

He supposes he should feel sad. But he's burnt out on sad. Where sad sat in his heart is now hollow. Instead, he surprises himself by feeling angry. It's a burn in his fingers, a stinging of his eyes. How dare Rick leave, leave him like this, alone and stuck in this shitty town where the most interesting thing that happens is people leaving. And how dare he be mad at Rick, when Rick was just trying to...

Trying to what. Trying to be the son that he could never be? Trying to be the son Kieren kept him from becoming. And now he's dead and Kieren's here and he doesn't want to be. The girl, Amy Dyer, her voice comes to mind. Planning on doing any travelling? Ha. He's too afraid to leave in more ways than one.

Kieren rips one of his canvases down. It's one of Rick (so many are of Rick). He stares at it for a second, but the burning doesn't stop, he's going to explode. Before he can think too much, he raises the painting above his head and brings it smashing down to the floor. Something cracks. He swings it at the chair. The canvas tears even as the frame knocks the chair over. The slam of it hitting his floor makes him jump, and all at once the anger leaks out of him. There's a hole through Rick's forehead. Kieren feels sick.

He buries the painting behind the discarded jackets and fallen hangers in his closet. It weighs on his mind, even out of sight. He can't be in this room, not anymore. He grabs a coat and storms out, happy that no one seems to be home. He doesn't want to have to explain he's going to the cemetery. He doesn't like the disappointed faces his family makes, when they hear that.

"You think I'd be used to disappointing them, at this point," he muses to the gravemarker. "Guess not."

He sits there until the sun starts to set. Rick never answers.


End file.
